


A Simple Twist of Fate

by the_dala



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 05:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3717043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_dala/pseuds/the_dala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Sparrow and his first mate Will Turner, having heard tell of a vast treasure hidden in Port Royal, pass themselves off as ordinary merchants while they search for it. Governor Swann is quite taken with them both, as is his young daughter Elizabeth, while Commodore Norrington proves somewhat less easy to win over.</p><p>(AU in which Jack found Will as a young boy; takes place after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3713797">Kinship</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm archiving my old PotC fic; this was originally published on March 31st, 2004. It is unfortunately unfinished; I'm taking another look at my notes and am going to try to work on it, 11 years later.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“How many times’ve I got to tell you, lad? Just get on with it already.”

Will adjusted his grip on the handle of the knife. “I don’t see why _I_ have to do it.”

Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose and heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Because I asked you to, that’s why. Just...have at it and stop cringing, would you.”

Steadying himself with a breath, Will brought the blade to bear, still in denial that Jack was actually going through with this.

“Ferchristsakes, boy, open your eyes!” Jack snapped, fidgeting in front of him. “I like my throat as is, not cut all to ribbons.”

“Hold still,” Will said, ignoring Jack’s temper as he often did. He managed to keep one eye open as he bit his lip, steeled his nerves, and made the first slice. It didn't do much. Frowning, Will bent his head closer and began to saw. He could feel Jack fighting off a twitch beneath his hands, and Will was mildly resentful that he could keep his eyes closed to avoid seeing the first piece drop to the cabin’s floor. As he learned the trick of it, his speed picked up and the job was finished in ten minutes.

“That’s the last of it,” said Will, setting the now-dull knife carefully aside. Jack’s eyes cracked open and together they gazed down at the collection of black locks now littering the wooden planks beneath their feet.

Staring wide-eyed at his shorn hair, Jack ran a distracted hand over his head. He’d have to neaten the remaining couple of inches with scissors, and it probably wouldn't look very presentable for a few weeks while it evened out, but it was done.

“Eight years,” said Will, disbelief coloring his voice. “You’ve spent the entire eight years I’ve known you cultivating most of that mess, and now it’s gone like it never existed.”

Someone who didn't know Jack as well as Will did would not have noticed the edge of discomfort in his shrug, in the way he wouldn't quite meet Will’s gaze. “‘Twas a dead giveaway and I’m taking no chances on this venture. Besides, I can grow it back easy enough.”

“Yes, but don’t you –” Will fell silent as he caught that look creeping into Jack’s eyes, the one that had been getting worse in the past few months. It was a vague sort of unease, as if Jack was lost and didn't trust the bearings from any compass. Not even having his beloved Pearl back had been able to drive that look away. Will had no idea what it stemmed from or what it meant; he only knew that it took Jack to a place he couldn't follow, and so he hated it.

He reached out to close his hand around Jack’s wrist and squeezed gently. The quick smile stretching Jack’s mouth didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was enough to banish the haunted look for a time.

Jack got to his feet and stood with one hand on his hip, looking down at the tangled locks and braids. “S’ppose we ought to get this mess cleaned up. Glad I thought to take out all the shine before you took to it with the blade, ‘else I’d have to sift through and find my trinkets.”

“ _We_ ought to clean it up?” Will snorted, throwing himself down on Jack’s bunk and reaching for the charts spread out across it. “It’s your hair.”

He got a smack on the rear with the small broom Jack had procured. “One of these days I’m going t’ have you caned for your insolence, whelp.”

Will grinned at the familiar threat and ran a finger down the map of the Caribbean sea, alighting at the dot Jack had marked in red. “So, Port Royal, is it?”

Jack made an affirmative noise as he scooped some hair into a bucket. “Used to be quite a lovely hole as I recall, though the English’ve been trying to get it nice and clean and respectable-like. We’ll have to hunt around an’ see if any of the finer establishments are still in business,” he added, clearly meaning taverns and whorehouses by the eyebrows he waggled in Will’s direction.

“I thought _we_ were supposed to be the respectable folk,” Will replied, making Port Royal a point on the star he traced across the island of Jamaica. He nodded to the expensive dark wig Jack was now twirling around one finger. “Isn't that what all that rubbish is for?”

“Rubbish?” Jack repeated indignantly, settling the wig atop his head. “You’d be a lot more concerned about looking like a gentlemen if you had to live on land with all the girls who’d want more than a piece of gold for your company.”

Will folded the map with a dramatic flourish modeled on some of Jack’s own. “But I look a gentleman. I don’t need the disguise.”

“True, despite all my best attempts to make it otherwise,” said Jack, straightening the wig to his satisfaction and reaching for the new brown waistcoat. It was much finer than his normal patched leather jacket, though it was bound to be hotter and itchier.

Sure enough, Jack made a face as he adjusted the wool garment. He spun around for Will’s benefit. “What d’you think? Can your captain pass for a well-bred dandy, or can he not?”

Will stood up, one hand going to his chin as he studied Jack with a critical eye. The fine clothes were a good fit, covering the pirate brand, the multitude of scars, and the various unseemly tattoos. He was standing straight with none of his usual graceful weaving, making him look taller. The black curls tumbling over his shoulders were actually a decent match for the natural color visible in his trimmed mustache and beard (the twin beaded braids had gone the way of the locks). His face was still deeply tanned, but not inappropriately so for his guise as a reasonably wealthy merchant. So long as he didn't go around hiding under a hat, everyone would just assume that he liked the sun.

Nodding critically, Will halted as he peered into Jack’s face. “The kohl, Jack.”

“Oh bugger,” Jack muttered, reaching for a corner of the bed cover to wipe the black stuff off. “I’d forgotten.” He made a face as he brushed smears of it from his cheeks. “How is it that this makes me feel more naked anything else?”

“Now you’ll have to squint like all the rest of us do,” said Will, grinning. “And you’ll have to think of some way to pick up women other than offering to share face paint.”

Jack shook a finger in his face. “Flat of my hand would do. Think you’re too big to be taken over the knees of these fancy britches?”

Jack stood on the deck of his ship, hands clasped behind his back, rolling his eyes at the catcalls that were still echoing back and forth in reaction to his new clothes.

“I hear that nonsense one more time and you’re all bein’ turned in to the lobsterbacks the minute we get to port,” he hollered. One lone guffaw sounded before relative silence fell. But it was not his words causing it; they’d all caught sight of the bodies hanging off to their starboard side.

Will came up beside him, jaw set as he gazed at the twisted corpses, their bones picked clean of flesh.

“Gallows Point,” said Jack quietly, bowing his head. He could sense the sudden stillness of his crew. A bad turn in the coming days and they could easily be the next to hang there, all of them. It had taken him weeks to convince them that this idea was worth every bit of the risk, that he wasn't leading them on a fool’s errand straight into the enemy’s mouth.

Jack was not entirely certain that he wasn't. The best rumors he’d managed to track down about the Peruvian treasure hidden somewhere in the town were unconfirmed, mere whispers among seamen, and he had no idea how rich its society had become since he’d last visited it. But the thrill of not knowing how his hand would be dealt set his blood to racing, and the inviting waters of the bay seemed to be calling him forth. Green like the water he’d been drowning in for countless nights now, dreams of shallow ocean and some nameless desire plaguing him even during his waking hours. There was nothing he should want, not when he had the _Pearl_ back and Bill's son as his first mate, and yet there was an ache settled firmly into a corner of his mind that he could not burn out with all the rum and pleasurable company in the seven seas - and heaven knew he had tried.

The boy was studying him, worry creasing his face. Jack shook himself mentally. He’d let it slip again.

“Jack. Tell me.” Will’s voice was low, his brown eyes intent on Jack’s own. “Before we go into this, tell me.”

He took a sharp breath before replying, closing his eyes and seeing that green against his lids. Sometimes he couldn't tell if it was sea-green or earth-green, and that frightened him.

“I feel the wind changing,” he murmured, not looking at Will. “Don’t know what it means, but I can feel – feel something.”

Will rocked back and forth on his heels, staring at the approaching docks and considering. “Then I guess we’d better go meet it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth pontificates about the nature of love and is saved from a watery death by Jack - in a manner of speaking, anyway.

Elizabeth was the type of person who found it very easy to detach her thoughts from any unpleasant situation. Being both creative and well-read, it was not uncommon for her to escape a dull lesson or an insipid tea party by imagining herself heroically scaling a mountain peak or battling pirates aboard a sinking galleon. She was perfectly adept at sending the wandering parts of her mind off into flights of fancy while leaving behind a portion to parrot mechanical answers and comments. It was as natural to slip into these daydreams as it was to breathe.

The problem of the hour, she supposed, was that she couldn't breathe. 

_Corsets_ , she thought darkly, her hand going to her tightly cinched waist, _ought to be torn apart, with their laces going to hang the dressmakers in London and their whalebones shoved down the throats of the women who wear them and thus magically make them the height of fashion_.

At her side, Mrs. Victoria Burns gave her a strange look. Elizabeth forced a smile onto her face, not at all comforted by random thoughts of violence or by the lace fan she barely had the strength to keep waving at her own face. She could have escaped the utter banality of the ceremony itself, but her crushed ribcage would not be so easily ignored. The dress was beautiful and she was quite impressed by the lift it gave her bosom, but nothing was worth this torture. She had nearly fainted walking down the stairs this morning, and again upon getting into the carriage. The blasted Caribbean sun did not help; Elizabeth glared out at it from beneath her hat, daring it to mark her skin.

She looked up and down the line of soldiers, as neatly aligned as the tin men she still kept in her room and showing about as much emotion. Her father stood at the forefront, gazing down the column at Captain Norrington – Commodore, she reminded herself, determined not to slip the next time they spoke – as proudly as if the man were his own son. Which, Elizabeth knew, was how Weatherby would prefer things arranged.

Biting thoughtfully on her lower lip, she studied her would-be suitor as he walked towards them. The governor’s daughter was a lofty prize for the men of Port Royal but a notoriously prickly one, and she was well aware of it. Norrington, however, had proven persistent, and Elizabeth had a grudging bit of respect for him because of it. It was certainly not the only point in his favor: he was handsome, especially today with the brass on his uniform polished to a brilliant shine. What she disliked about his appearance was that his face always seemed as starched and powdered as his stiff coat and his cream puff of a wig. Now and then she’d caught sparks of personality in his eyes, which she had to admit were quite a lovely green, but he was then quick to turn himself back into stone.

At least he was not pompous like most of the younger officers, or cruel to his servants as Robert Marsh was, or constantly winking down her dress in the manner that had nearly gotten Aiden Pierce slapped at last year’s Christmas party. Norrington had been too shy to dance with her that night, but he had spoken at length with her father, impressing Weatherby so much that he began hinting to Elizabeth what a kind and gracious man the young captain was. Elizabeth took some comfort in the fact that such a reputation was more important to her father than money, of which Norrington did not have a great deal. However eager he sometimes seemed to marry her off, she knew her father only wished her to be happy. They might both lose sight of this fact when they quarreled, but she was not afraid of being handed to some portly, aging businessman for the size of his bank account and not the goodness of his heart.

She looked at Norrington as he drew near and wondered if he was to be that man she would settle on. Elizabeth was something of a practical soul. Having seen many girls her age fall into a swoon at the slightest sign of male attention, she tended to look on such infatuation with contempt. Two people whose personalities were well-suited to one another – that was what made a good marriage, not these starry-eyed fits of passion. She did not remember her mother very well, being only three when a difficult labor had killed her and the little brother she’d been carrying, but her father had often said that they were friends before they took the leisure to fall in love, and by that time they’d been married for months. Elizabeth thought that she and the commodore might be able to manage that, if they got to know each other better.

And yet sometimes she doubted this conclusion. Was that all there was to it? The epic romances in some of the stories she read spoke of hands trembling, of pulses racing, of the dizzying madness of loving one person so deeply that all else faded away. Of course, there were also those celebrating the rapture of physical love when there were no romantic feelings to consider, and those in which terrible things happened to women if they should dare to act on their desires or even have any to begin with. It was all very confusing and Elizabeth was glad that she was only eighteen and thus entitled to a few years of deliberation before she was considered an old maid. If she were a pirate queen, she could have a torrid romance with a cabin boy – strictly as an experiment, of course. But as a woman of class she had to be discreet and honor her father’s –

“Miss Swann?”

She blinked, surprised that she’d so managed to lose herself in her thoughts as to become oblivious to the progression of the ceremony. The newly appointed commodore was standing in front of her, a nervous cousin of a smile on his face. “May I have a moment?”

As the pain of her constrictive clothing was once again brought to the forefront of her mind, she could only nod politely. Norrington led her to the battlements at the side of the fort and paused, turning away as though to be seen face to face with her would be considered improper.

“Ah, you look lovely, Elizabeth,” he said, flushing slightly. Elizabeth, after all her internal debate about courtship and love, was not particularly in the mood for his awkward attempts at conversation; she tried to smile, but grimaced as even that wrenched the organs trapped under her corset. The air seemed thinner up here and she was certain that it was not a good idea to be even nearer this brutal sun.

Norrington continued, looking back out to the horizon. “I apologize if I seem forward, but I must speak my mind.”

The rocks lining the edge of the fort, lapped by the sea, began to blur in her vision. Elizabeth bit down on her tongue until it hurt, trying to stay conscious.

“This promotion throws into sharp relief that which I have not achieved.” He turned towards her then and she was grateful to meet his eyes, because the view was beginning to give her a sickening sense of vertigo. She had a moment to register that his face was anxious before he shifted his gaze somewhere to the right of her face and squinted. “What –”   
Elizabeth turned to see where he was looking. There was a large, unfamiliar ship docking in the bay below, and that was all she was able to determine before her vision went gray.

She came to as Norrington caught her, her hat taken by the wind to sail down the side of the cliff. The relief that he had turned to see her start to fall was nearly enough to make her faint again. The odds of landing safely among those jagged rocks were grim.

In an instant her father was beside her, taking her from Norrington and peering down in a panic. “Elizabeth? Good gracious, child, are you all right?”

Struggling to raise herself on her own, Elizabeth gave up to sag in his arms. “I will be fine as soon as I can get home and take this bloody dress off,” she muttered. Weatherby closed his eyes and sighed, accustomed to her occasional lapse in manners and knowing they were deliberate. Norrington cleared his throat politely and got to his feet, reaching down to help her up. He dropped her hands immediately and backed up, letting her father fuss over her as she tried to bat him away.

“Jones will take you home,” he said, closing her fingers over the handle of her fan. “I must go down to the docks and see about this mysterious ship that’s just arrived.”

“Do you think they might be pirates?” Elizabeth asked hopefully.

“My dear,” her father replied with a chuckle, “you always ask that, and I always tell you that you would not be so pleased at the idea if they really did turn out to be pirates.”

Elizabeth scowled as he guided her to the door and the carriage waiting outside. “There’s never any excitement in this town.”

“You nearly fell off the battlements, wasn't that excitement enough for one day? And do remember that we are holding the reception for Commodore Norrington this evening.”

“I’d forgotten.” She groaned and turned pleading eyes on her father. “Please, can’t I say I’m still faint and stay in my room? I spent all morning with the same people who are going to be at that party and I don’t believe that’s fair.”

“No, what's unfair is that I've been saddled with such a willful daughter,” Weatherby retorted, helping her into the carriage. “I will expect you downstairs no later than six o’clock. And that’s properly dressed!” he added as she nearly slammed the door on his fingers. “No showing up in my old riding breeches and a cut-up dressing gown!”

“That was five years ago, Father,” she called back to him, grinning at the memory. There were a few mothers who still would not let their daughters associate with her because of that particular afternoon, and as they were among the more loathsome maidens in Port Royal society, she couldn't say she minded.

Tonight’s party, on the other hand... She slumped back against the seat, trying to heave in a few deep breaths. 

Tonight’s party was going to be considered a success if it didn't end in murder or suicide.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is busy at the governor's reception. Will molests a fountain, Elizabeth spies and tries to form an opinion on the new arrivals, Jack schmoozes and discovers his green.

“Jack, I’m not going and that’s final.”

“C’mon, Will, you can’t expect to make me go to this little soiree all alone.”

Will threw his hands up in exasperation. “That’s right, I don’t – in fact, I don’t expect you to go to a gathering at the governor’s mansion at all.”

“But darling,” Jack whined, flopping down onto Will’s bed and propping his head on his hands, “everyone _important_ will be there.”

“Go and bother them, then,” said Will, flicking a thumb and forefinger against the nose rubbing against his shin. “And you have your own damn bed.”

Jack had already tried pouting and begging, so he took the tricky route of bribery. “There’ll be lots of rich people.”

“Yes, and if you pick any pockets we’ll be found out, so do try to contain yourself.”

He bounced with a hopeful grin. “That’s why you've got to come and keep an eye on me, savvy?”

“No,” Will said for what felt like the thousandth time.

“Fine wines? Cheeses?”

“Still no.”

“Stinky cheeses?”

Will looked down at him, raising an eyebrow. “Why would I need a stink like that when I can smell you any time I wish?” In actuality, he was very fond of cheese, and they were unable to keep any decent ones fresh for long at sea. But if Jack did not remember that, Will wasn't going to be the one to remind him.

Jack screwed up his face as he thought. Finally he offered, “Pretty girls?”

Against Will’s better judgement, he felt interest take hold. It had been awhile since the last port. Then he remembered that these would be wealthy girls, no matter how pretty, and he would have nothing to offer them. He pulled a pillow over his face. “Can’t you get someone else to go? Go find Gibbs or Ana.”

“Anamaria is with the _Pearl_ and most everybody else is out drinking after a long day of looking for honest work,” Jack retorted. "It was very traumatic for them." He poked Will in the stomach. “You’re it. Get dressed.”

“I am dressed,” said Will, running a defensive hand over his shirt. It was a bit worn, perhaps, but it was perfectly clean. He’d known Jack was going to become insufferable once he got his hands on some nice clothes.

Jack shook his head solemnly. “You are not, I’m afraid.” Launching himself off the bed, he began rifling through the tiny wardrobe in a corner of the room. Will sat back against the wall, resigning himself to the idea of going to this ridiculous affair. He knew he’d get no peace until he agreed. Trust Jack Sparrow to meet up with the richest man in town and get himself invited to a party only hours after they’d arrived. What little society Will had been around in his lifetime had not impressed him greatly, and he was not looking forward to standing silent at Jack’s side all night. On the one hand, it would keep him from having to talk to anyone else, because Jack tended to monopolize any conversation of which he was a part; on the other hand, Will would be expected to ooze sweetness and politeness to these complete strangers while Jack talked them up.

A silk waistcoat hit him in the face and he groaned. “Do I really have to wear this?”

“Yes,” Jack replied, tossing more clothing out to him, “and stockings too.” Having provided Will with an outfit, he attacked his coat where it hung on the door, flicking off imagined bits of dust and tugging its lapels straight.

Will pulled faces at his back while dressing. “I hope you plan on finding someone to burn off this manic energy with.”

“You offering?” Jack asked with a leer at Will’s bare chest.

Used to this nature of teasing, which had been going on since Jack had introduced him to his first brothel, Will merely rolled his eyes. “No more than ever.” He struggled with the absurdly white stockings. Thank goodness it had been a dry day, because he’d never be able to avoid kicking mud on his own legs while wearing these pathetic little shoes. _Buckles,_ Will thought in disgust, pulling them on. _My boots don’t have any need of shiny stupid buckles._

Jack came and held him at arm’s length as he stood. “Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, love the cut of the breeches, the shirt is nicely pressed, but dear me, boy, we've got to do something about that hair.”

Will covered his head with both hands. “You are not cutting it or throwing a wig on me!”

“Of course not,” said Jack, his hands reaching out, “let me just tie it back –” 

“I can do that,” said Will huffily. “I’m not a complete heathen, you know.”

Jack made a grab for him, catching him by one ear and making him yelp. “Yes, but it looks a mess when you do it. It wants pomade and a comb – just sit down and let me fix it!” He pushed down on Will’s shoulders and Will obligingly dropped down onto the bed, turning to let Jack attend to his brown curls. He didn't mind his hair messy, and God knew no one else on the _Pearl_ was going to complain.

_But we aren't on the Pearl now_ , he thought with an inward wince. _I've got to play by the rules of the landlubbers, or at least however well Jack has interpreted them._

Jack chuckled softly around the leather tie he was holding between his teeth. “Your father hated to be overdressed, too. It took all I had to convince him to put on his wedding suit once it was bought – and I had to pick it out, I might add.”

Will screwed up his face as Jack hit a tangle while dragging the comb through his hair. “You helped him buy his clothes and yet you didn't attend the wedding.”

An almost undetectable pause as Jack secured the thick brown mane into a knot. “Had somewhere t’be.”

Another question was on the tip of Will’s tongue, but he fell silent. It had taken him years to understand the distance in Jack’s eyes when he spoke of Bill. One very long night in Port Morant had left him with the assurance that nothing had ever actually happened between the two of them. Perhaps it wouldn't haunt Jack so if it had. He claimed not to remember anything he’d said that night. It was plausible – he had been so drunk that Will had actually gotten Gibbs to come check him over once he’d passed out. Whether or not Jack could honestly recall the things he’d mumbled into Will’s shoulder, they’d both been careful to never bring it up again.

Finished smoothing the ends of his tied hair, Jack got up and dragged Will to the tiny cracked mirror above the washstand. “What say you?”

Will tilted his head. He was looking into the mirror and a clean-cut, respectable stranger was looking back. It was one thing to see Jack’s transformation, quite another to experience his own.

“I suppose...it’ll do,” he said slowly, rubbing the mustache Jack had ordered him to keep neatly trimmed.

“Of course it will, you’re a dashing rogue and I’m sure you’ll have all the females swooning over you 'pon our entrance.” He dragged Will to the door and paused to frown over his shoulder. “Only try to do it clandestine-like, in a corner or something, because I’m supposed to be a higher class of dashing rogue and I’ll be making the rounds."

“Whatever you say, Jack,” Will muttered as he followed his captain out the door. _God save me from mad pirates and rich widowers’ daughters._

 

Elizabeth had deigned to attend the party and she had even put the new dress back on after begging Estrella to give it some breathing room. She had graciously accepted a few dances, tasted some of the sweets, slipped under her father’s arm to beam radiantly at his friends, and had a brief chat with the commodore, in which he narrowly escaped spilling his wine in her lap. All of it had been done under protest – except perhaps the nibbling of the sweets – but she was prepared to go to great lengths to please her father and put forth the picture of a modest, graceful girl blossoming into womanhood. 

Just about the only thing she was not prepared to do was sit with Mary and Mabel Truesdale and listen to them prattle on about that awful shade of lavender and this gentleman’s new commission and the affair between the baker and the apothecary. For that reason, she was currently hiding behind a tapestry depicting St. George slaying his dragon, in the back of the ballroom, near the doors leading out onto the patio.

Taking another sip from the wine glass she’d brought with her, Elizabeth gleefully watched the Truesdale twins trying to ferret her out. They’d walked right by her not five minutes ago, tittering about the young man who’d come on the ship this morning. He was by the refreshment table at the moment; Elizabeth glanced over to see him scan the crowd, looking supremely uncomfortable. He’d been neglecting to ask any of the girls at the party for a dance, despite clear signals any man of his age should have been able to recognize, and she didn’t think she’d seen him open his mouth once all night. He merely wandered, looking lost and provoking her sympathy.

He was wandering closer now, probably heading for the open doors to her left. It was the nearest she’d been to him all night, since he had arrived late after she’d already retired to her hiding spot. As he walked past, she noticed warm hazel eyes and large, rough-looking hands. There was a prominent scar across the knuckles of the right. 

_Hmm. So he dresses like a gentleman and he has the hands of a laborer_ , she thought idly, her interest further piqued by this close glance. A farmer perhaps, just come into wealth? From marriage – that would explain why he wouldn't dance. She dared to peek out of her secluded spot just enough to keep sight of him as he walked over to the fountain. It was deserted, so no one but Elizabeth saw him accidentally break the small penis off the cherub spouting water into the pool. She covered a giggle with her hand when, after glancing about in alarm, he stuck the appendage into the statue’s horn. It obstructed the flow of the water for an instant before the system adjusted to its new construction. She caught sight of his left hand as he raised it to fiddle with the queue of his hair: no ring. Unmarried, then. It was possible he was just shy. He trailed his fingers in the fountain, a slight smile visible on his face under the light of the outdoor candelabrum.

He was interesting, and interesting was one step along the road to exciting. Elizabeth was deciding whether or not she wanted to emerge and ask his name when she was suddenly stumbled into by a fellow guest.

“Beg pardon, miss,” said the man, righting himself and steadying her with a hand on her elbow. Elizabeth looked up into animated black eyes set wide in a tanned face, framed by fine cheekbones and offset by a fastidiously groomed mustache above full lips. He was incredibly handsome, though in a different way from the younger stranger, and moreover, he was fully aware of it.

Even recognizing him for a cad, she still felt her heart flutter a bit when he took her hand and bent to kiss it, a warm press of his mouth and the scratch of his mustache against the back of her palm. He maintained the contact just a touch too long for proper decorum.

She cleared her throat, letting a bit of chill into her voice. “I do not believe we have met for you to take such liberties, sir.”

The man grinned fetchingly and released her hand. “My apologies, dear lady.” He bent at the waist in a truncated bow. “I was momentarily stunned by your beauty and forgot my manners. The name, if you would like it, is John Smith, late of Portsmouth and newly arrived in this quaint island town.”

_He does like the sound of his own voice_ , she thought with reluctant amusement. Men of Smith’s demeanor usually irritated her beyond tolerance, but she happened to like the sound of his voice as well.

When he straightened, something jogged her memory and she blurted out, “Oh, you’re the captain of the new ship!” She had seen him talking to her father for much of the night, quite admirably looking interested in his stories. Elizabeth loved her father dearly, but his pet stories were boring and only his dearest friends and those with questionable hearing were likely to stick about when he launched into one.

“Owner, if you please,” said Smith with a smart nod. “My captain is quite a short, grizzled man and I’d hate to think I might be mistaken for him – or him for me, as a matter of fact.” He gave her that winning smile again, which was nearly impossible not to return. Elizabeth made a brief attempt to resist before giving up a grin of her own, hoping he didn't think she was flirting with him.

Well, all right, perhaps she was, a bit.

Reminded of the young man who’d turned the fountain’s cherub into a eunuch, she glanced over Smith’s shoulder, but the patio was empty.

Smith was looking at her expectantly. “Do you have a name as well, or shall we keep an air of mystery about your identity?”

“Elizabeth Swann,” she replied, fighting the urge to curtsy. There was something courtly about this man, making her carry her head a little higher.

“Ah, the governor’s daughter,” said Smith. He cast a look out at the crowd . “He’s been searching for you for quite some time, you know.”

Elizabeth twisted her hand around the stem of her glass. “Yes, well, I've been – ah – occupied –”

“Hiding, in other words,” said Smith blandly. At her sharp look, he fixed his features in an expression of utter seriousness. “Please forgive me for being forward. I assure you, the secret of your location is safe with me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” she said, smiling at him again.

He gestured out towards the dance floor. “It appears as though my colleague is in need of some assistance.” Before she could ascertain which gentleman he was pointing to, he’d taken her hand and kissed it a second time. She tried to decide if she should be offended, but it was far too hard to take umbrage with his jovial, almost elfin face. “I hope we will speak again, Elizabeth.”

“As do I – on the condition that you please call me Miss Swann,” she said with an arched eyebrow. He was charming, but he wasn't that charming.

Smith nodded politely. “And as long as we are indicating how we should like to be addressed, I must ask that you call me Jack.”

“I don’t believe that is entirely –” Elizabeth began, but Smith merely winked at her and turned, weaving his way easily through the crush of people.

She frowned. He was either exceptionally polite, or he was rude. She either enjoyed his company, or she was incredibly irritated by him. It would take more than one meeting to decide on that.

Ducking back into her hiding place, she found him again as he reached the spot he’d pointed out. To her surprise, he pulled her nervous stranger away from a gaggle of girls (including the twins; he had just earned even more of her sympathy) with yet another winsome smile. Oh, that was just wonderful – now she would have to endlessly hear about the both of them for the duration of their stay in Port Royal.

She watched them as they spoke, their heads bent close together in obvious fellowship. So that was Jack’s – Smith’s colleague.

Elizabeth suspected that having Jack – Mr. Smith, damn him, it was only proper – involved might drastically increase Port Royal’s chances for excitement.

 

Will took the red wine from Jack’s hand and drained it, ignoring Jack’s muttered, “I didn't offer that, you know.” It wasn't a particularly good vintage, but he’d had some plans for it nonetheless.

“Thanks,” Will gasped, handing the empty glass back.

“You looked like you were in need of a rescue,” said Jack, sliding a fingertip around the glass’s rim. “Never seen you shy away from a pretty woman before, not even a collection of them.”

Will pursed his lips. “I don’t know quite who I’m supposed to be,” he said. “I know I’m your nephew, but am I a sailor? Am I educated? Should I pretend to be mute or dim-witted or –”

“As of ten minutes ago, you are a gardener.” 

Will’s brow furrowed.

“Employed by the governor himself,” Jack added helpfully. “You start tomorrow morning. Ah, congratulations?” he offered with a wan smile, seeing consternation arise in Will’s eyes.

“What?” the boy hissed. 

“I found you a job,” Jack explained, backing carefully up against the wall so they weren't quite as noticeable as they were standing in the middle of the room.

Will closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Jack knew that look. Will had adopted it right around the time his voice had dropped and he’d decided that Jack was the one of the two of them that needed looking after. “Jack. I don’t know a thing about gardening. I haven’t lived on land in over eight years, and before that my home did not have anything even resembling a garden.”

Jack shrugged. “How hard can it be? You water the man’s pretty flowers, pull out weeds, trim the hedges.”

“Pretty fl–” Will thundered. Jack shushed him urgently and he continued in a harsh whisper. “His pretty flowers are probably all imported, cost a fortune, and will suffer an unfortunate death at my hands before the week is out!”

“There’s no need to be so dramatic, William,” Jack sniffed, flicked the lace on the cuff of his sleeve. “You’re a bright boy, I’m sure you can come up with something.”

“And what will you be doing, Captain?” Will demanded. Ungrateful brat; he only used Jack’s rightful title as an obscenity uttered in anger. 

“I am a businessman,” said Jack demurely. 

Will stared at him, a vein in his temple throbbing. “Sometimes...sometimes even I can’t believe you, Jack.”

“Look, it’ll get you inside the house and anywhere on the grounds, savvy? I didn’t do this to torture you, lad. It’s strategy.”

Still looking unhappy, Will said, “All right. But I've had as much as I can take of this place for tonight; I’m going back to the inn.”

Jack opened his mouth to protest, but the implacable look on Will’s face halted him. “Go on, then. Rest up for your big day tomorrow.”

Will shot him a glare as he left.

“Mr. Smith, was that your nephew?”

Jack turned to face the governor, plastering a smile back on his face. “I must apologize for him, sir, he wasn't feeling terribly well. I believe it was your fine wine that affected him – the boy almost never imbibes.” Weatherby looked pleased at that. _Yes,_ Jack thought eagerly, _let Will play the innocent pup; let this friendly fool never suspect a thing._

The other man plucked a sleeve out of the small group in front of them. It belonged to a tall man in a blue Navy-issue greatcoat, his back erect with the dignity of rank. This must be the famed infant commodore. Jack was almost inclined to believe the governor fancied the man, the way he talked about him.

As if he’d read Jack’s thoughts, Weatherby beamed as he drew the man closer. “Ah, here is Commodore Norrington, the man of the hour.”

The commodore turned and Jack saw nothing but green.

Green eyes piercing him, slicing through him, stealing his breath, green water swallowing him up and bearing him all the way down...

“I know you,” he breathed.

The man blinked, shuttering those beautiful eyes – _oh, so sad, bring them back to me again_ – but even as Jack mourned the loss, it broke his spell.

“I beg your pardon?” said Norrington politely. “I don’t believe we have met.”

“Not met?” the governor exclaimed, clearly upset that he had two such illustrious guests in his own home and he had not introduced them.

“No, the commodore and I have not yet had the pleasure of introduction, I am afraid,” said Jack, hearing a bit of swish creep into his words, especially the way he’d dropped a note or two on ‘pleasure.’ Norrington noticed; something in his gaze changed, shocked for an instant before it hardened. Jack immediately stuck out his hand, making sure to adopt his more carefully modulated Smith tones. “John Smith, of Portsmouth, at your service, sir.”

When their fingers touched, he took in a sharp breath. He had a sudden fear that his brand and distinctive sparrow tattoo, just inches away on his right forearm, were in danger of being discovered. But he had covered them with a thin leather guard, he remembered, and they were further protected by his sleeves.

Their palms pressed together in a firm handshake and Jack caught a flicker of disorientation in Norrington’s eyes. Was it possible – no, no reason to believe he’d felt anything.

But he would. By Neptune and all his mermaids, he would.

 

“James Norrington.”

He’d seen the man in the dark wig and the stiff new clothing several times during the night. The attention of many men and women had been upon him, and as James tended to avoid attention whenever possible, he had never gotten close to the stranger. If he’d known that he was going to react like this, he would have stuck with that agenda.

The man’s eyes – _burned_. When he looked at James the room went slightly curved like the horizon, all points of focus drawn back to those bright dark eyes. And the rest of him, his fine-boned face, his trim body, that was enough to draw him, too –

James caught hold of the reins of his thoughts and hauled back on them. He was no schoolboy with his every emotion beheld in his face. No matter that he had dreamed of such fire, burning without light, licking over his skin until he could see nothing beyond it. He’d thought it was hellfire and he had suddenly become aware that it would stop burning if he stopped struggling, but he’d awoken before he could test this theory. This Smith fellow, upon second glance, was just a man like any other, not a devil come to tempt him. True, his skin was uncommonly dark and he moved with an almost feline grace, but he was only a man.

Though dear God, his eyes –

The idea that to think of sinning was the same as indulging in it had to be true, because there was no way James should have felt so guilty when he’d done nothing untoward. 

_Yet,_ a tiny voice whispered. _But you want him and it has been so long, so long..._

He shook himself mentally, clamping down on everything that had been rushing through his head in the few seconds since he’d given his own name. Smith was smiling at him and it was a warm, cordial expression. James could not trust that.

Still sizing each other up, the two of them nodded briefly when Swann excused himself to go speak with other guests. James was somewhat relieved to find himself slightly taller than the other man – a scant inche or two, but an advantage to cling to when Smith’s face unnerved him so.

“I hear I ought to offer you congratulations,” said Smith. His voice was light and even, falling pleasantly on James’s ears.

“Thank you,” said James, not for the first time that day and probably not for the last, though the evening was winding down. “The governor says that you are a merchant.” Smith nodded. “What, may I ask, might you be shipping in Port Royal?”

It might have been his imagination, but he thought Smith’s smile slipped a bit; of course, it might only have been due to James’s tone, which was sharper than was strictly polite. “I must admit that I have no business here,” he said, no sign of unease in his voice. “I have a shipment of sugar cane to pick up in Savanna la Mer in a fortnight, but as I've spent a good deal of time in that port already, I was interested in discovering the hidden wonders of Port Royal.”

James gave a short laugh. “I’m afraid someone has misinformed you, Mr. Smith. Port Royal is just getting onto its feet, and our ‘wonders’ are somewhat less than impressive.”

“If I may disagree with you, Commodore,” said Smith with a deferential bob of his chin, “I find the scenery much improved since my last visit here.”

Barely suppressing a wince, James replied, “The town was not terribly hospitable in earlier days, I’ll give you that.”

“And we all must thank mother England for her renewed interest and for sending her best and brightest to help sweep its streets clean of pirates and brigands,” said Smith. And James was definitely not imagining the way his lashes swept down over his eyes.

But that did not necessarily mean what he thought it meant, he told himself hurriedly. It would be so much easier for them both if it didn't.

Easier, yes, but if it did...? 

He cleared his throat rapidly. “We have done our best.”

A slight inclination of Smith’s head. “Evidently.” The clock struck and he glanced up. James took this opportunity for what it was: a chance to escape.

“Well, it has been quite enjoyable conversing with you, Mr. Smith, but I’m afraid I must take my leave.”

Smith held out his hand again and James fought down panic, but he was only reaching for another glass of wine from a passing servant. “I trust that we will meet again, Commodore Norrington.” For an instant his grin became something darker. “Port Royal is a small town, after all.”

James nodded and backed away, having to take in a deep breath before he could tear his eyes from Smith’s.

He made his way to the front foyer and leaned against the wall, pulse pounding in his ears as though he’d fled from the party with some speed.

Smith was only a man, he reminded himself, even if he happened to be a strangely compelling one.

_Then why can’t I breathe, even now when he no longer looks upon me?_

_Heaven help me and let me sleep peacefully tonight. And let Smith’s fortnight run out early._


End file.
